


the unseeing eye

by rowenabane



Category: NCT (Band), WAYV
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Haunting, Horror, M/M, Spirits, Supernatural Elements, Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowenabane/pseuds/rowenabane
Summary: Ghosts do not exist until they do, and then suddenly they don’t.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Qian Kun
Comments: 9
Kudos: 99
Collections: NCT Spookfest 2020





	the unseeing eye

**Author's Note:**

> "We who were living are now dying  
> With a little patience."
> 
> T.S. Eliot

The only thing Ten knows is the house.

It wasn’t always like this, he supposes. Once, there was a world outside the house: something green with flowers, something dark with stars, something soft like soil. He watches the uncut grass sway in the wind, watches shooting stars fall to the earth like pieces of glass hitting the ground.

It was not always this way, Ten thinks, walking down the empty and darkened staircase. He walks into the kitchen and watches a cobweb dangle from the ceiling, the tile over the counter fading from blue to gray. He places a hand on the window above the sink and inhales slowly, the cold of the glass so sharp it is almost painful.

Almost. It was not always this way.

…

There is a man in the house, now. He comes every once in a while, always with someone new. He talks fast, wears a nice suit, carries a hefty sheaf of papers with him every time he comes. Ten catches his name from the corners of the house as he introduces himself: _ Doyoung. My name is Kim Doyoung. Nice to meet you! _

Ten watches him lead a woman and her husband through the empty house, the husband nodding at the blankness of it all, the vintage disrepair. A fixer-upper, he says to his wife. A fun project.

She does not agree. Ten watches her shake her head and the three of them leave. Doyoung locks the door behind them, making sure no one else enters the house in his absence. Ten stands at the door and places his hand on the doorknob, just enough that the coolness of the metal begins to sting.

There’s a grandfather clock in the hallway, the only piece of furniture in an otherwise empty house. The wood is antique mahogany, carved with so much love and care that it seems to have a body and heart of its own. The hour and minute hands are made of solid bronze, shaped into delicate spikes.

Ten reaches up to the clock face and pushes the hour hand back one hour. It was not always this way.

…

Eventually, Doyoung brings someone else to the house. It’s a man, young, handsome. Ten watches him step through the doorway and the entire house exhales, letting go of some long-held tension. Ten exhales too, quietly, and watches the man walk to the grandfather clock. He pushes the hour hand forward, to the correct time. His hands are steady. 

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” Doyoung says cordially, guiding him towards the stairs. Ten follows, transfixed by the man’s open eyes, the way his hair curls over his ears.

There’s a blank room on the second floor, all white, illuminated by a single large window. It is Ten’s favorite room: bright, no shadows.

The man looks around the room, slowly, sweeping his eyes over every dusty corner, the white wood molding lining the ceiling. He goes to the window and pulls it open, the sun breaking through the cloudy glass with an almost audible sigh of relief. Ten steps closer, as close as he dares, watching the man’s pupils dilate in the sun. His face is serene but something in his eyes flickers, an awareness that was not there before. He squints at something outside the window.

Ten reaches out slowly and brushes a knuckle against the man’s cheek. There is the lingering, living memory of warmth. It drifts off his skin, and Ten becomes acutely aware of a chill in his palm, an icy stiffness in his fingers.

The man’s eyes are brown, striped like tree bark. The sunlight falls into the darker parts, making them as shallow as accidental graves. Ten pulls back. He feels colder now than he did before.

The man turns as if he has heard something, a sound imperceptible to human ears. He frowns slightly and his mouth drops open.

“Is someone there?”

Doyoung looks behind him, at the doorway. There is no one there. 

Except Ten, of course.

“Is there someone there?” the man repeats. He raises an eyebrow. “I thought I saw someone.”

“We’re alone,” Doyoung says, puzzled.

A long-dead emotion stirs in Ten’s heart, something akin to embarrassment or shame. He takes one step back, another, into the hall.

The man doesn’t seem fazed. He steps through the doorway and looks up and down the long hallway, craning his neck as if he expects Ten to still be there. He would be correct: Ten  _ is  _ there, one foot pointed downwards as if to fling himself down the stairs.

The man doesn’t see him this time—he looks right through the space he occupies, eyes unfocused. He does not see him. He cannot see him.

The man talks with Doyoung outside on the porch, their words lost to Ten. He presses his hands against the glass and watches the man’s mouth move, curling around every word with a gentleness, a tenderness that Ten could never reserve for words alone.

“Why you?” Ten whispers to himself, so close to the glass that, if he was still alive, it would fog up with breath. “Why  _ you? _ ”

The man shakes Doyoung’s hand and then walks down the porch, down the dirt driveway. Ten traces his eyes over the puffs of dust and dirt that rise in his wake, expelled by a being with mass and weight.

Ten walks up the stairs and does not hear them creak. He goes to the empty room, the window still open. A solid square of sunlight lies in a perfect outline on the wooden floor.

He holds in a sob and then slowly, with all the strength he has, pushes the window shut.

…

Ghosts do not exist until you become one, and then there are far too many of them.

Ten holds the memory of his death at bay with a solid wall, something tall and made of brick, a fortress with the sole purpose of keeping him in the dark. It horrifies him, sometimes, that the memory is just within reach. It terrifies him that if he allows himself to remember, he might not be able to forget.

Ghosts do not exist. Ten goes to the grandfather clock and pushes the hour hand back just because he can. The point does not dig into his finger, the edge does not sting, but the coolness is still there. It is the suggestion of metal, just strong enough for him to feel it. He pushes the hour hand back. He is suddenly tired.

Ghosts do not exist. He steps back from the grandfather clock and hears a bang in another room, the sound of a door slamming open with enough force to hit the wall. He stands in front of the grandfather clock and peers up the stairway. He tilts his head and searches the darkness for something, anything.

Ghosts do not exist until they do, and then suddenly they don’t.

…

The man comes back the next week.

Ten hears his car first, the engine hiccuping as he drives up the driveway. It shudders to silence and then a door opens, slams shut.

The jangle of keys. Ten stands next to the grandfather clock, one hand resting on the hour hand. He was just about to push it back.

Door open. Door closed. The man is standing in the foyer, his yellow sweater pushed up to his elbows.

“You can’t see me,” Ten whispers, reaching out as the man walks past. “You can’t see me this time.”

He can feel a trace of warmth in the space where the man was just standing and he basks in it. The man smells a little like spices, ginger and mint and dirt.

There are boxes in the man’s car. There is a truck in the driveway. Ten stands by the grandfather clock and watches the man slowly fill the house with stuff, things, items of the living. It is curious how much one  _ needs _ to feel at home: plates, towels, pillows.

The man makes the white room his bedroom. Ten thinks this is a good decision.

Slowly, the house comes alive: flowers in the dining room. Photos on the walls. A fresh set of tiles in the kitchen. Ten is an antiquated thing, something old to be discarded.

One day, the man stands in front of the grandfather clock, hands on his hips. He tilts his head, considering.

“You can’t get rid of this,” Ten says indignantly. “I won’t let you.”

Kun doesn’t hear him, of course. Instead, he reaches out and pushes the hour hand forward, wiping some of the dust off with his sleeve.

“There,” the man murmurs, voice so thoughtless, so warm. “Much better.”

Ten inhales sharply. He has not heard a voice like that in a long, long time.

...

It was bound to happen. It was not always this way.

The house becomes clean, becomes a home. The boxes disappear. The untamed grass and dead flower beds begin to sprout with new life, become something ordered and loved. The man spends the days in happy solitude, music playing softly from the radio he has perched on the windowsill in the kitchen.

He is sitting in the kitchen, drinking a cup of tea, when the phone rings. He presses it to his ear, listening. “This is Qian Kun speaking. How may I help you?”

Everything in Ten shivers.  _ Kun _ . His name is Kun.

It is as simple as that. Kun hangs up the phone and stares out the kitchen window, mug temporarily forgotten. His mouth parts slightly as he mouths something to himself: a reminder, perhaps. Ten leans in close, hoping to catch the words in the warmth of his breath. Nothing.

Kun goes to attend to something else in the house, forgetting his mug. Ten stares at it for a long time, thinks about the curve of his mouth, the softness of his voice.

It was not always like this. Ghosts do not exist.

Ten places his hand over Kun’s still steaming mug of tea. The steam prickles his skin and drops of water condense along his palm, burning. He can feel the drops run along the grooves between his fingers but he can see the steam rise through his skin as if he has no more mass or weight than a projection on a screen. He watches steam curl over and around and through his fingers, transfixed by the tiny forest fire his skin has become. He pulls his hand back, and the steam remains. It rises to the ceiling in lazy, looping circles.

If he runs his thumb along the rim, he can feel the heat of Kun’s mouth imprinted into the ceramic. An awful longing springs up in him, the memory of what it was to be warm and loved.

Kun comes back into the kitchen. He forgot all about his tea.

Kun grabs the mug and for a moment it seems as if their hands will collide, brushing against each other with the lightest of touches. Ten pulls his hand away before they can touch, knowing that this illusion of solidity is just that: an awful, painful illusion.

No hauntings. Just him.

…

Ten is not the only dead thing in the house.

There are places in this house he will not go, even now. The attic. The dark corner below the stairs. He remembers things, some important and some not. 

_ A dark room. A dark room, a dark room with no windows, no windows and something evil inside it. _

Doors open of their own will. Kun closes them, murmurs about drafts and loose hinges. Ten watches the doors strain under his touch, colder than wood should be.

Maybe the Evil Thing has always been in the house.

It was not always like this.

…

Ten is watching the hands of the grandfather clock go round and round, hours and minutes and seconds.

In the night, someone screams. It is a desperate sound, like the cry of an animal caught in a trap. Ten looks up. Goes to the foot of the stairs. 

Another scream. A crash. The voice sounds like Kun.

Ten takes the stairs as quickly as he can, each step like a lead weight holding him in place. Kun’s bedroom door is ajar, and moonlight pours through the cracks. Ten passes right through the wood and finds Kun sitting up in bed, face buried in his hands. He looks up as if he has heard a small noise.

“You can’t see me,” Ten murmurs, shaking. “I am not here.”

Kun wraps his blanket around his shoulders, shivering. Sweat coats his forehead and his eyes are distant in the dark. He bears all the trademark shivers of a bad dream, a haunting of the mind and not the spirit.

Ten sits next to him on the bed, just close enough to touch. He wills heat into his body, pulls it from the air and the still-warm sheets, and leans in close. Close enough to touch. Close enough to…

“Who’s there?” Kun asks into the darkness. His eyes are wide and afraid. “Who’s there?”

The warmth dissipates as Ten’s shock grows. He doesn’t move, afraid that a shift in the air will draw Kun’s attention.

_ You cannot see me _ , Ten thinks.  _ I am not here. _

“Show yourself!” Kun exclaims, throat hoarse. Then, softer, “Please.”

_ I am not here. _

Ten places a hand on Kun’s cheek, gently pressing it into the living, breathing heat of his skin. Kun sucks in a breath but does not move away, eyes flickering to the darkness where Ten sits.

“You cannot see me,” Ten whispers. Kun looks right through him, eyes fixed on the wall. “Go to sleep.”

Deep, trembling breaths. Kun pulls the blanket tighter around himself and lies down, still staring at the wall. Ten watches him close his eyes and counts the long seconds before he is finally asleep. The tension drains out of him and into the room, transferring from one spatial body to another.

Kun’s alarm clock is a heap of plastic and wires on the floor. Ten picks up the pieces one by one and places them back where they were before, fingers aching with the effort. The display is stuck at 2:01, the red lights flashing off and on.

_ I am not here. _

Ten feels his chest go hollow and empty like a cage. “Good night, Kun.”

…

The dreams continue. This is the nature of hauntings: if you do not know you are haunted, you are not. It is simple as that, simpler still. If you do not know there is someone in the room with you, is there?

Ten sits at the foot of the bed and stares out the window while Kun tosses and turns, murmuring frantically under his breath, music with a fever pitch. 

“Please,” Kun is whispering. “Please leave me alone, please—”

Ten holds a hand up to the moonlight and marvels at how it passes right through. There is nothing else he can do.

A gasp. Ten turns and sees Kun bolt upright, chest heaving, brown hair falling over his eyes. He is blinking as if he must remember what the world looks like, must remember it and take it back with him as a gift.

“Tell me,” Ten whispers, as if Kun could hear him. “You can tell me.”

Kun doesn’t say a word. He just rubs his eyes, turns over, and goes back to sleep.

…

Doors open. Doors close. Water runs in the empty sink. Kun’s lovingly tended azaleas begin to wilt. What was once half paradise becomes half cursed. They both know now that something is not quite right.

A dark room. A dark room with something evil inside.

...

Kun brings a woman to the house. Her hair falls over her shoulders in waves, and her clothes boast an astounding rainbow quality to them, every scrap of fabric a different, neon-bright shade. She steps through the front door and pauses, looking at the walls, the ceiling. 

Ten stands by the grandfather clock and watches her walk to the kitchen.

“Thank you for coming,” Kun says frantically, his hands are red, rubbed raw with worry. “I’m so glad—”

The woman looks at the clock, walking right past Ten in the corner. “Your clock is an hour slow.”

“It's always been like that.”

“Hm.” The woman pushes the hour hand forward and Ten resists the urge to push it right back. From here, he can see the soft curling of the woman’s bangs, the letters on each of her beaded earrings. PSY CHO

“I’ve been having these dreams,” Kun says hurriedly, glancing over his shoulder. Ten wants to reach out and hold him, tell him that he will always keep him safe. “Things move around the house, the doors keep opening—”

The woman looks at Kun for a long time, head tilting this way and that, earrings swaying. PSY. CHO.

“Have you ever seen anything?” she asks. “Something unexplainable?”

“I thought I saw something once, in the bedroom upstairs,” Kun says. “But I was just imagining things.”

_ No _ , Ten thinks, the memory warm and solid in his stomach.  _ Not your imagination. Just me. _

The woman nods and walks up the stairs, hand sliding over the railing. Kun follows, unsure. 

Ten stands at the bottom of the stairs in the space where they just were. He places a hand tentatively on the railing and can feel the warmth of the woman's hand, can smell lavender and sage from her hair. He follows like a moth to a flame, the stairs silent beneath his feet.

The white room. The open window. In this light, Kun has a certain beauty defying logic. His brown hair, brown eyes, old sweater, all take on a form and dimension they lack elsewhere.

The woman holds a palm out in front of her. “Is there anyone here that would like to speak to me? We just want to talk.”

Silence. Ten steps closer, poking a dragonfly patch on the woman’s denim jacket. She turns, and when she looks in his direction her eyes shimmer, blue and gold and lilac and lavender and red and green and—

“What’s your name?” she asks. Ten takes a step backward, shock coursing through him like a wave. 

“It’s okay,” she says, smiling. “My name is Yeri. What’s yours?”

“You can see?” Ten rasps, his own voice horrible in his ears. When was the last time he spoke to someone that could listen? When was the last time he shared words with someone that understood?

“I can see,” she says warmly, extending her hand in his direction. “What’s your name?”

The word is an exhale, something almost lost to time, salvaged in those last moments before it is gone forever. “Ten,” he breathes. “My name is Ten.”

“Ten,” she repeats. “Nice to meet you, Ten.”

Kun is staring at Yeri with a visible crease between his brows. He can only hear half the conversation.

“He can’t see me,” Ten says quietly, chest cracking open like an eggshell.

“Do you want him to?” Yeri asks gently. Ten shakes his head.

“He wouldn’t understand,” Ten says hollowly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“That’s fine,” Yeri says. Her eyes shift color again. “Can you tell me about the house?”

Ten feels his heartbeat pick up. “There’s an Evil Thing,'' he says frantically, his desperation sickening to hear. “It wants to hurt him.”

“An Evil Thing?” Yeri asks, frowning slightly. “What do you mean?”

Ten takes Yeri’s hand and her eyes widen. Ten thinks about the Evil Thing, pours the emotion into the space between them. A single tear drops from her eye and falls to the floor.

“A dark room,” she whispers, eyes wide and wet. “A dark room, a dark room with no windows, no windows and something in the dark—”

“A dark room with something evil inside it,” Ten finishes. Yeri shakes her head.

Silence. Kun opens and closes his mouth, eyes wide as he watches tears roll down Yeri's face. His eyes flicker to Ten, then back at Yeri.

“Yeri?” Kun says slowly, stepping back. “Who’s that?”

Their eyes lock and for one horrible moment Ten knows he is seen, is perceived. Kun presses his hands to his chest and goes pale, trembling from head to toe.

Ten lets go of Yeri’s hand and stumbles backward, hitting the wall. Kun rushes into the space where he just was, spreading his hands into the empty air like it holds clues, a map.

“Where did he go?” Kun exclaims, voice cracking. “Where is he?”

“You have to leave this house,” Yeri says, pushing him towards the doorway, eyes brown as soil. “Soon. As soon as you can.”

“Who was he?” Kun yells. “Who?”

“He’s trying to warn you,” she says, heading to the stairs. They creak beneath her feet.

“Warn me of what?” Kun asks, frowning.

“A dark room,” Ten whispers, watching Yeri go down the stairs “A dark room. A dark room with no windows, no windows and something in the dark—”

“A dark room with something evil inside it,” Yeri says. She turns to Kun behind her and the stair creaks beneath her foot. Between breaths it breaks completely in half, giving her nothing to stand on.

Ten watches from the top of the stairs as she falls, Kun reaching out to grab her, gravity too quickly pulling her away. The look on her face is almost comical shock, her earrings bouncing against her cheekbones. PSY CHO.

She hits the floor with a solid thud, groaning. She is still for a long time, fingers moving of their own accord. One earring has been ripped from its mooring during the fall and now lies on the ground beside her. PSY

“Oh god,” Kun says, hands hovering over her waist. “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—”

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials 911, one hand above Yeri’s chest.

Ten walks down the stairs, slow and quiet. Her eyes shimmer, and when she sees Ten she  _ sees  _ him, she  _ knows _ . She makes a soft keening sound, not conscious or strong enough to form words.

The Evil Thing watches from the darkness. Ten pushes the hour hand back.

…

It was an accident, of course. When the paramedics come and carry Yeri away they say it is a miracle only her back is broken. They say it is a miracle that it was nothing worse.

Ten sits at the bottom of the stairs and watches Kun pull at his bottom lip, eyes clouded over with some distant fear. He paces back and forth, eyes flickering to the broken stair and then to the door.

“You know you can’t stay,” Ten says into the silence. Kun‘s face doesn’t change. “You know you have to leave.”

Kun stops pacing.

“Hello?” he says quietly, softly, into the silence. “Is someone there?”

Ten doesn’t say a word, clamping his hand to his mouth. He watches Kun come to the bottom of the stairs, looking upwards into the darkness. Ten cranes his neck to look at him.

Silently, Kun shakes his head and turns away.

…

“I saw you,” Kun says one morning, drying a plate with a light green towel. It is fraying at the edges, lovingly used, a thing with purpose. “The first time I was here. I saw you.”

Ten stands in the corner, watching the morning sun drifting through the window. Kun does not quite know he is here: his eyes flicker all across the room, he speaks to the emptiness. Ten goes to the sink and stares at the dishwater bubbles. They reflect the light in the most beautiful and broken of colors.

“Who are you?” Kun says to the open air, drying each dish and sliding it onto the open cabinet. “Why are you here?”

A pause. “Ten?”

Ten stares at him, stunned by the openness in his eyes, the barren soil of his irises. Kun looks up and for a second it seems as if they are truly seeing each other, two of them finally perceiving the other. Ten opens his mouth, almost speaking, almost seen—

Kun’s eyes unfocus and he looks back at his dishes, his faded towel. He did not see Ten at all.

Ten holds in that broken feeling and leaves the room in silence. He goes to the grandfather clock and pushes the hour hand back. 

He does not cry. He is simply not alive enough for that.

…

That night, Ten sits at the edge of Kun’s bed and listens to him mumble in his sleep, almost crying out. He watches the waning moon cast weak light over the bed.

“Please, help me, someone—”

Kun’s alarm clock isn’t fixed yet. It blinks at 2:01, forever looping, frozen in time. Ten stands and places a hand on Kun’s forehead, finding him burning beneath his palm. Feverish. Fevered.

Kun says something beneath his breath, too faint to make out. Ten leans closer, hoping to catch the sound.

“Ten,” Kun says gently, so softly and sweetly that Ten reels back as if shocked. It is the  _ way _ he says it, all round vowels and soft breathlessness, that frightens him. Kun is asleep. He does not know he is there.

“Go to sleep,” Ten whispers, pressing a kiss as intangible as thought to Kun’s burning skin. Kun sighs, but does not wake.

...

The Evil Thing waits, but it is not patient.

It is night time, dark and oppressive when the knocking from the attic starts. Ten hears it first and tries to block it out, goes to where Kun is sleeping in fits and starts and places his hands over his ears. 

Kun wakes anyway, sitting up in bed with his shirt sticking to his chest. The knocking continues.

Kun’s eyes are wide and frightened. He does not think of spirits. He thinks  _ intruder _ , thinks  _ flesh,  _ thinks  _ things he can see _ . He creeps out of bed, and as Ten watches, heads down the stairs to the kitchen. The steps do not creak for him, and he skips over that one splintered stair.

_ Kun, _ something whispers. Ten watches Kun’s eyes flicker, head whipping to find the source of the sound.  _ Come find me. _

Ten stands in the doorway of the kitchen. “Kun, don’t do it, don’t—”

Kun ignores, looking up the stairs. “Who’s there?” he yells into the black.

Ten lets out an empty, hopeless sob. 

_ Come find me, _ the Evil Thing whispers, and Ten sees a dark room, a dark room with no windows, no windows and something evil inside it, waiting for its next victim. The knocking continues, almost mocking.

“What are you!” Kun yells, more angry than scared. He quakes with every word, face pale. “What do you  _ want?” _

“Kun, don’t go,” Ten pleads, fingers slipping through his west as he tries to grab him. Kun runs into the kitchen and pulls open a cabinet drawer. He grabs a kitchen knife. “Kun, please, don’t—”

Kun runs up the stairs and flings open the attic door, runs up those too. Ten is helpless, can only follow and observe.

The attic is dark. A dark room with no windows. Kun switches in the single lightbulb saying from the ceiling and peers into the corners of the attic. Boxes line the walls, cobwebs drifting from the rafters.

A shadow shifts along the wall, moving of its own accord. Kun doesn’t notice but Ten does, and the sight of one shadow peeling away from the rest is enough to make what was left of the heat in his bones vanish completely. He goes cold, colder than ice or glass, as the Evil Thing drifts towards Kun.

The Evil Thing is terrifying to behold, something vague and void-like, a shadow made flesh. A half-formed skull peeks from the shifting darkness and then disappears. The darkness swirls and suddenly there is the sight of bleeding muscle, jagged teeth. An eye. Another eye. Another, another, another—

Ten holds his breath. A dark room. A dark, dark room.

_ Do I scare you? _ the Evil Thing murmurs, and Ten can see it curling around Kun’s ankle in the windowless attic.  _ Are you afraid? _

Kun’s eyes are fixed on the single bare lightbulb hanging from the ceiling, the yellow reflecting in his eyes. The kitchen knife is clasped in one trembling, bone-white hand.

“I’m not afraid,” Ten says, counting. One eye. Two eyes. Five, ten, fifteen— “Leave him alone.”

_ What will you do, little spirit _ , the Evil Thing gurgles, almost laughing.  _ Stop me? _

Ten watches inky splatters stretch and crawl over Kun’s hand, horrible to the unseeing eye. Kun stares at the swaying lightbulb, looks down at the knife in his hand. He does not see.

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Ten says. The boxes in the attic draw closer, quivering against the floor. “I won’t let you.”

_ You were weak then, _ the Evil Thing says. It slides around Kun’s waist, following his every move.  _ You are weak now. _

A dark room. 

Ten stumbles back, images coming at him in sharp, cutting frames of glass. A dark room. A hand around his throat. The terrible sensation of being ripped open, being completely torn apart. 

_ A dark room. A dark room with no windows, no windows and something in the dark— _

Thrashing. The most terrible scream, a shriek for animals, not men. Ten shakes with the memory, held so far away that now it snaps back into him with all the force of a rubber band. He was gutted like an  _ animal _ . The dark stains on the attic floor were once part of  _ him _ .

“You did not kill me,” Ten says to the Evil Thing. His voice is not steel but damned if it isn’t close, something strong that does not bend. “It was a man that killed me. Not you.”

_ Who says I did not kill you, _ the Evil Thing says, skull revealed once more.  _ Who says I cannot kill you now? _

Ten has been dead for too long to care. “I do.”

The Evil Thing gurgles and the singular light bulb shatters, plunging everything into complete and utter shadow. Ten hears Kun gasp and feels his way through the darkness to a singular patch of warmth, something solid in the cold. He places his hand on Kun’s shoulder. 

The Evil Thing gurgles behind them as Kun stumbles down the attic stairs, out of that darkness into faint moonlight. Ten risks looking back and sees several eyes staring at him, each one bloodshot and jagged along the iris. He shudders and leans into the warmth Kun leaves behind.

_ Who says I cannot kill you now? Who? _

_ … _

Ten’s death was not a pretty one. There was no gentle exhalation, no spirit leaving its body by will or peace. _ No, _ Ten thinks as he watches Kun sleep.  _ Someone took my spirit away from me. _

The memory had been buried so deep that the pain of it now is just as awful as when it happened. He, too, had lived in this house. He, too, had made this house his home.

He remembers coming home from work. He remembers turning the hour hand back: daylight savings time. He remembers hearing faint footsteps in the attic.

Here, the shivers consume him: a small tingle becomes a full body shake, the warmth leaching out of him like a body in an icy lake. He watches Kun sleep as peacefully as one haunted by death can, and then curls up next to him. The sheets smell like lavender dryer sheets and Kun’s shampoo.

Warm. Ten pulls himself inwards, shivering. At least for now, he can feel a little warm.

…

Too soon, night falls. Too soon, everything goes dark.

The day starts and ends like any other: Kun drifts around the house like Ten does, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. Ten wants to touch him, gently with solid hands, and tell him it's okay to leave. 

“It's okay,” Ten whispers to him as he lets his cup of tea go cold on the table. “It will be okay.”

It is storming outside. Together they listen to the wind howl and beat against the windows. The sky is darkening faster than the sun can set, and in the gray and black shafts of red peek through, blood in the clouds.

Kun bites his lip and pours the rest of his tea down the sink.

…

It storms for the next three days. There is just not enough light in this house anymore—even in Kun’s bedroom the walls are more gray than white, the shadows more like voids than shadows. The house shakes and the windows rattle in their frames and every night Ten curls beside Kun, watching him frown in his sleep.

The Evil Thing laughs, gurgling as it slides around the hallways. It is no longer confined to the attic, instead roaming the dark house like a chill that will not go away. Water runs in the kitchen. No one is there.

Ten sees its mouth as it slides by Kun’s door. Beneath the long and broken teeth, it almost looks like it is smiling.

_ Soon,  _ it rumbles.  _ Soon, little spirit. _

…

Daylight savings time. It seems that nowadays there isn’t much daylight to save, every day the same dark gray. Kun stands in front of the grandfather clock, watching the second hand stutter around the face. 

Ten leans against the clock. “Don’t do it,” he murmurs. He stands in front of Kun, his body a nonexistent barrier between him and the clock. “Kun,  _ please. _ ”

Kun pushes the hour hand back. The clock stops entirely. Ten holds his breath, and when he lets it go he sees it go misty white in the air. It's cold.

The front of the grandfather clock explodes, the enamel and glass face shattering into a thousand tiny daggers. Kun stumbles back and Ten watches, with startling clarity, how the bronze hour hand slices across his face, the long end gouging itself into his skin. His hand flies to his cheek. He screams, loud and high.

Ten places his hands on the bronze and that coolness is solid even if he is not. He dislodges it as Kun screams, head tossing, trying to pull it free. The bronze clatters to the floor, warm with blood. Kun stumbles into the kitchen, one clumsy foot in front of the other, drops of blood following him like loyal dogs.

“You’ll need to apply pressure,” Ten says into the vacuum that all his words get sucked into. “Like that. Yes.”

Kun clamps a dish towel to his face and the towel is already bleeding red through the other side. Not that deep, it couldn't have been that deep—

The unwashed plates in the sink tremble, rattling against the side of the sink. Ten is not able to pull Kun away before one of them flies upward into the ceiling, shattering into chunks of ceramic upon impact. Kun shrieks and stumbles away, the whole house quaking, trembling, a living thing.

It’s worse this time. Ten feels the Evil Thing and knows that it does not shake the walls just for the shaking, does not break the dishes just for the breaking. Ten watches Kun pull the blood-soaked towel away from his face, eye narrowly spared by the long, bloody slash.

In the kitchen, the window explodes. The glass flies inward and Kun falls backward, hands slipping on sharps of ceramic and glass. He crawls towards the grandfather clock and Ten follows, trying to take in enough strength to pull the glass out of his skin, his face.

Something in Kun’s chest breaks, something as vital and fragile as a heartstring. He lets out a cry, almost inhuman, so full of grief and pain that Ten feels it in all the parts of him that were once alive.

Ten pushes himself against Kun’s back, wraps his arms around his waist, presses his cheek to his shoulder. He tries to drown out the sound of Kun sobbing but it is so, so loud—a wail, a broken scream to ward against the night. The walls are shaking. In the kitchen, water runs along the tile. The grandfather clock has stopped, will never start again.

“You can’t have him!” Ten screams at the house, the Evil Thing bleeding from the walls. “ _ I won’t let you! _ ”

The floor quakes and Kun holds his head in his hands, crying, forehead against his knees. He folds on himself like a tiny paper ball, easily torn to pieces. Somewhere, glass crashes to the ground. A plate comes whizzing out of the kitchen and hits the floor at Kun’s feet, sending him into a full-body flinch that turns into a frantic scramble backward.

“Leave him _ alone _ !” Ten yells, picking up the plate and sending it back into the kitchen. It is a feat of strength that should be impossible, but as the remains of the plate collide with the door the entire house goes heavily and eerily still. 

Porcelain drifts across the floor as if blown by the wind. Everything stills, waiting.

“Please,” Kun is murmuring, rocking back and forth. His voice breaks on every other word, his eyes squeezed so tightly shut that only vises could open them. “Please don’t hurt me, please please please—”

“I won't let you hurt him,” Ten says into the darkness. It watches with a hundred, invisible eyes.

He kneels in front of Kun, holding his hands out like an offering, a prayer. “I won’t let it hurt you, Kun. You know that, right?” I won’t let it hurt you.”

Kun sobs quietly with his arms wrapped around his knees. He does not know. He can never know.

The cabinet drawers open and close. The cutlery and silverware clatter against the edges, rise and fall. Forks and knives hover in the air, suspended by something beyond understanding, beyond comprehension. The kitchen knife levels itself at his head.

“You can’t kill me,” Ten says, heart so cold he almost wants to laugh. The only warm thing in the entire house is Kun: the last living and breathing memory of life.

_ Who says? _

The knife slices through the air, right through him, and Ten feels the metal go through him, a solid shard of ice. He looks up the stairwell, hears laughter reverberate in the walls.

_ Who says I want to kill you?  _ The Evil Thing slides over the banister, half bone, half flesh, half ink, all eyes.

Ten turns and sees Kun clutching at his stomach, the kitchen knife buried in his skin all the way up to the hilt. His skin goes pale, rapidly, as if everything living about him was a coat of paint washed off by the rain. He sinks to his knees, staring at the wall in disbelief. 

_ It was not always like this, _ Ten thinks, as he watches Kun cry into the sudden silence, the Evil Thing quiet from the stairs. He can feel Kun’s blood warm along the floor, but when he reaches out to touch it his hands come away clean.

Kun stares at the ceiling, breaths shallow, an angry gash stretching from his cheek to his jaw. His hands are covered in blood, his gray sweater one dark mass of red-black fabric. He’s gasping now, knife rising and falling like a headstone in an earthquake. The ground welcomes him

Glass litters the floor like stars in the night. Ten tries to place his hand on Kun's. His fingers pass right through.

Ten kneels in front of him until quiet sobs turn to a heavy silence, until Kun’s breathing becomes soft and tired, almost asleep.

"Go to sleep," Ten murmurs. "I'm right here. It's okay."

He can stay here by Kun’s side all through the night. He can keep watch like the last guard at the tomb. He can do that until the sun comes, until the sun comes home to them both.

Kun gasps.

The Evil Thing laughs, and keeps laughing, and does not stop.

…

Boxes. It was not always like this.

Kun is standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up towards the attic. The boxes of his life have been neatly stored, ready to be transported away to somewhere new. Doyoung is running around outside, papers crumpled in one hand.

Sunlight, everywhere. The house is bright, lovingly cleaned. The azaleas in the garden are dead. There’s a stain on the floor.

Ten places a hand on the shattered face of the grandfather clock. “Everything will be okay,” he says quietly, watching the sunlight play over the angles of Kun’s face, his brown eyes. His lips part and he turns, eyes sad.

Ghosts do not exist.

“No,” he tells Ten, breath cold. “It won’t.”


End file.
